Orlando's most wanted

Let Rumsfeld worry about the remnants of Saddam's regime -- homeland security requires that these enemies of the Sunshine State be captured or killed at all costs.

Her boyfriend's band finally played that career-making Tuesday-night gig at Kashmir, and now all of us luckless spuds on her e-mail list are going to spend the next three months reliving the magic moment in pictures -- fuzzy, unpleasant pictures that emphasize her bongo-playing boo over lesser lights like the vocalist and lead guitarist. Be sure to click on the hyperlink to the group's official Internet site, where our hard-working webmistress provides 'round-the-clock news updates, member likes/dislikes and a surprisingly detailed discography of the combo's two indie releases. Think she's obsessive-compulsive now? Wait until she gets actual pets.

It's not Shelley Long, but an incredible simulation. This frankly unsettling soccer mom has revealed to friends that she suffers from mild bipolar disorder, but a look at her spotless medical records reveals that she's just plain weird. Specialty: Making inappropriate remarks to her son's overnight guests. Dabbles in: Salad-bar crying jags.

Recently set foot out of his house for the first time in six years, solely to attend a public burning of Dixie Chicks memorabilia.

Where would your automotive budget be without this altruistic unlicensed mechanic, who will repair your chariot at a fraction of the cost charged by the big boys? There's no red tape. No hassle. No fuss. No tax. No receipt. And no chance of restitution when your transmission falls apart on the East-West. Almost as bad, he insists on calling you "Junior," though he knows neither your father's name nor yours, and displays scant interest in learning.

A Khalil Gibran quote sits atop the mantle of this spiritual dilettante's sumptuous Lake Mary home, the product of years of meditative discipline and corporate malfeasance. While others revel in the emptiness of our materialistic Western society, her social calendar is a wonderland of tax-deductible donations to East Asian outreach projects. Believes in reiki, faeries, auras and the trickle-down theory of economics.

Dance to the left, dance to the right, but stay the hell away from this frisky Parrothead, who compensates for the stultifying rigidity of her white-collar job by getting rip-roaring drunk on weekends and giggling like a bobby-soxer over innocuous lyrical references to sensimilla. God forbid you're in her vicinity when Buffett -- pardon us, Buf-FETT! -- begins wafting from an outdoor loudspeaker: You're liable to take an indignant judo chop to the solar plexus if you somehow resist the urge to do the Shark Dance.

Perhaps you've seen this self-styled town crier bearing down on you from behind the wheel of his big honkin' family-utility vehicle. But his real calling is ruining Orlando's few outdoor-dining experiences as he regales all at home with the stirring tale of today's polenta choices. If there was ever the possibility that he'd one day come up for air, it evaporated the minute Flight 93 went down. Now he's certain that he's just one crisis away from being goddamned Paul Revere.

This straight shooter prides himself on calling 'em like he sees 'em, and he doesn't give a fig what the PC thought police have to say about it. So you can count on him referring to everyone from Cedric the Entertainer to Kofi Annan as "the colored guy," and ribbing his female coworkers that their testiness while in his presence is probably due to "that time of the month." He's currently planning a move to L.A., because innumerable nights alone have convinced him that there's nothing going on in Orlando.